Office Christmas Parties
by dahling
Summary: Sunhill's Christmas party's in swing, Smiffy's not feeling the love. ZS eventually!
1. PHASE ONE – awkwardness

Office Christmas parties.

A great way to get pissed and do something that will haunt you for the next year, until someone outdoes your gossip-genesis.

With little exception, they move in phases:

**PHASE ONE – awkwardness.**

Generalised nervous behaviour from all. It's a strange situation, everyone's out of uniform (or suits for CID) and some people have partners. People are oddly brittle and unfamiliar with close friends.

Smithy wants no part of this.

He has no partner, not since Louise. Everyone's seen him in his jeans, he's hardly dressed up. Old news.

He acknowledges members of the force, is introduced to wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends. He wonders how many will be at next year's Christmas party and for what reasons they will be absent.

As he sits at a table cluttered with plastic cups in various stages of emptiness, coats and handbags, he wonders how many couples will fight over the Holiday period.

Honey and Will are talking, standing awkwardly. He gestures with his hand, then claps it to his face in horror; she laughs and steadies herself on his arm before quickly taking it back and glancing nervously at a group of Uniform and their spouses.

Emma Keane's boyfriend has his arm possessively around her as she listens to Phil Hunter and Sam Nixon telling a story relay-style. She strokes the back of his hand absent-mindedly to reassure him.

Gina, Adam, Jack, and June are standing by the bar as if they were chaperoning a high-school dance. Smithy could feel their stony silence on the other side of the room.

He decides on his conversation – the stony silence of the bar.

"Guarding the booze, Gina? Changed your mind on the free bar?" Smithy smiles, helping himself to a can of beer.

"I haven't changed my mind, but I'm hoping my disapproving glares will mean all the more for me." She replies, fixing him with one.

Smithy ignores her and opens the can with a hiss.

"You seem full of the Christmas Spirit, Smithy." She observes dryly.

"Overflowing with it." He agrees, even drier.


	2. PHASE TWO – cliques

**PHASE TWO – cliques.**

Enter the fashionably late. They provide a welcome distraction for everyone who has run out of acceptable Christmas Party Topics. The brittleness fades and is replaced with strangely over-familiar body language. Time for the partners to sink or swim – socialize and run the risk of overshadowing the copper; fade into the background and hope for the best.

Smithy wants none of it.

Dan's entrance pulls a gaggle of younger uniform together. Honey's criticizing Will's hair, standing in front of him, fussing. Emma, Dan and Lewis stubbornly ignore the grooming as Emma's wallpaper boyfriend fetches her a plastic glass of something.

June's left her vigil to join the crowd at the buffet table with their uproariously funny jokes. She dodges a hand-fed mini-quiche from Roger and they both lean on one another, laughing.

Mickey and the CID boys are the cool kids – they stand one hand in a pocket, another around a drink. They watch girls, the bar, the CD player-come-jukebox. The CID girls are sitting at a table, intent on whatever conversation they're having: Jo leans over Sam to his something at Suzie, resulting in cackling to startle everyone in the room.

Gina's guard of the bar has softened from an implied ban to concession if the drinker had a Christmas crown on. Her own orange crown sit perfectly on her head and is the only thing that could tease something like a smile from Smithy's lips.

He pulls himself up and returns to the bar.

"Another drink, Smithy?" She asks holding up what he hopes is orange and vodka and not just orange. "You know the rules."

"Gina, come on…" he protests weakly. "I –"

"You better not be about to pull rank on me with that Sergeant act, have you seen Superintendent Okara?" she nods. He's wearing a blue crown, upside down.

"Why is his upside down?" Smithy frowns, hoping to distract her.

"He maintains they fall off less. So what colour can I do you for?" She fixes him with a stern look and he feels like a naughty school boy.

"I…uh…well y'see –" he starts.

"I'll take purple." A voice at his elbow states, helping himself to a drink from the tray on the corner.

"Purple, DC Nadir?" Gina questions, handing him a rolled up wedge of crepe paper.

"Mmm." He takes a sip of his drink, unravels the hat and sets it on his head. "Matches my tie."

Smithy glances across to confirm this, exhaling a little laugh.

"Now, Sergeant Smith, men who can match their clothes and their accessories are a rarity in our department." She nods at his jeans and non-descript grey jumper finished with somewhat muddy trainers. "Well done, Zain. Pick a colour for Smithy. Something to bring out his Christmas Spirit."

Zain puts his drink down and pokes through Gina's strategic stock of paper hats. He frowns as if making a complicated decision that could affect the lives of many before holding up a pink-coloured wedge.

Smithy rolls his eyes, he's so far from being in the mood for this. He snatches the hat, flicks the elastic band at Zain, scowling at him, then Gina. Mock-triumphantly, he jams the hat onto his head and their mild smiles turn to beams.

"Right. Happy?" He snaps, taking two drinks this time and stomping back to his refuge behind the bags and coats.

"He's a ray of sunshine, isn't he?" Zain glances over his shoulder at the retreating Smithy.

Gina nods mutely, wishing he would just come back and chat. Company is the best cure for loneliness.


	3. PHASE THREE – loud talking

**PHASE THREE – loud talking.**

The barriers are down and the music is from the 80's. People have drunk enough to forget to use their "indoor voices". The Christmas hats, crackers, tinsel are now fashionable accessories. People you normally have nothing to do with are suddenly terribly interesting.

Danger zones start to be visible.

Smithy can't care less.

The cackling CID trio has grown in numbers to swallow up Honey, Leela, Emma and Gina. Despite the fact Smithy had made a point not to talk to Gina more than absolutely necessary all night, he can't help but feel lonely.

_Women_, he grumbles to himself.

The lads have taken over the bar-area. They're not enforcing hats but they're all wearing one. Mickey has silver tinsel tied around his neck and he's attempting remember the words to _The Twelve days of Christmas_. He's stuck on the partridge, not helped by Steve Hunter insisting that Ladies Dancing come next.

Some of the loose lips can be attributed to the departure of some of the higher-ranking officers of Sunhill, while the others have taken to sitting at a third table civilly.

Another shriek from the cackling women in the corner sends Smithy on another drink-finding mission, this one far more covert than the last.

He moves silently from the table to the bar, holding his pink hat in his hand. Luckily, this time he is not challenged. He helps himself to another drink and something inside him feels a twinge of regret that he isn't part of the Lads' conversation. Bitterness that they didn't see him and force him to talk about Lords-a-Leaping, he slinks back to his safe-haven.


	4. PHASE FOUR – Dancing

**PHASE FOUR – Dancing.**

The end is in sight, dancing with the Apocalypse to _I wish it could be Christmas Everyday_, _Do they know it's Christmas_, _Merry Christmas Everyone_, and _Rockin' around the Christmas tree._ Nobody remembers the fundamental fact that they'll have to live with the knowledge that they danced with their boss, tripped over the deceptively flat ground, or got overly friendly in a cloakroom.

Smithy's been there, done that. He doesn't feel like doing it again.

His mood hasn't improved over the past four renditions of _Merry Christmas, everyone_. Some songs you can listen to ad nauseum, granted, but maybe not so many can stand ad nauseum drunken screams.

Smithy can't see just who deserves his death-stare for this crime against humanity. The lights are down to a disco ball hanging above the jukebox and the tea lights on the tables, most of which have gone out. He has a strong suspicion it could be Mickey again. Smithy pokes his own candle with a strip of pink crepe paper from his crown. He's starting to regret being so anti-social.

Around him, people have started to pair up or break into smaller groups. Gina cuts in on Honey and Will's dance, giving Honey a knowing wink. In return, a minute later Will is stolen again in a tango-grip by Dan, leaving Gina gobsmacked but laughing.

Phil and Jo are locked in mortal dance-combat with Sam and Terry, trying to outdo the footwork of the other couple. Sam gives Phil an elbow in the ribs and a cheeky wink as she goes for a rather over-enthusiastic spin which Terry wasn't expecting. She stumbles into the buffet table and they laugh uncontrollably.

Emma and the Wallpaper Boyfriend are standing near the edge of the buffet table, arguing. Her arms are crossed and she refuses to look at him. His hand is on her upper arm, his face pleading.

Smithy feels a little worse for wear. His vision isn't as steady as it was when he arrived. He has a sneaking suspicion that if he stands up, he'll be less steady on his feet.

He tears another shred from the Christmas crown and rolls it up and poking the candle. The pink paper blackens and curls back up on itself. He sighs and shakes it out, ash falling onto the white china underneath.

Glancing up again, he sees his friends having fun without him. Doing stupid things, granted; but having fun.

"You've been sitting there like a wet weekend all night," a voice interrupts his internal critique of the party.

He sighs and looks up and tries to smother a giggle. It comes out like a strangled yelp. "You're still wearing that thing?"

Zain's hat is dog-eared and crumpled but still purple and still sitting smartly on his head, matching his tie. His eyes drop to the mess on the table in front of Smithy. "You're not." He observes.

Smithy feels guilty as he looks at the pink hat, burnt and shredded. "It was pink?" he offers.

Zain sinks heavily into a plastic chair next to Smithy and starts stacking empty cups. "I never picked you for the Scrooge type, Sarge."

"I'm not," Smithy turns his attention back to doing away with the evidence of the Pink Crown. "I bloody love Christmas."

"Obviously." Zain raises his eyebrows.

"I do, I love Christmas. Any excuse that makes people act like that," he nods at Dan and Will, now doing the Macarena to _Do they know it's Christmas_. "Gets my nod."

Zain nods, smiling slightly. Slightly _evily_?

"Come and dance with me." Zain stares him straight in the face. He's daring Smithy.

"Dance with you?" Smithy splutters, not sure where this came from. "I don't…"

"Dance? Dance at parties? Dance with work colleagues? Dance with men? Come on, it's Christmas." Zain's daring Smithy. Smithy knows this though part of him resists.

"All of the above." He states, flatly.

"You've not done anything all night. Come on." His eyes sparkle as he offers his hand across the tea light. He's joking, he's reaching out.

Smithy's brain mocks the idea of dancing with posh-boy Zain, and intends to stay firmly put with his free booze and pyromania. He's mildly horrified to feel himself stand up, wobble, and his feet to follow Zain's paper hat.

Zain is equally surprised at Smithy's crumbling resolve and he turns to check he's right. Smithy's face is confused, hints of a frown with the tiniest glimpse of smile around the corners of his blue eyes. Zain grabs his wrist and pulls him onto the dance floor proper.

Smithy can't believe he's doing this.

Smithy can't believe he's doing this with _Zain_.

Smithy can't believe he's doing this with Zain _at the office Christmas party_.

No matter how much he can't believe it, he's dancing – albeit awkwardly! – with Zain. Zain's long fingers are wrapped around one of his wrists, holding his arm at shoulder-height; the other hand is around waist height as Smithy grabs it with his spare hand. He finally breaks into a little smile and Zain can't help laugh.

Smithy finally feels a little bit of Christmas spirit, and the alcohol in his blood runs with it. He leans in and hugs Zain tightly, clapping him on the back.

"What??" Zain shouts over the music.

Smithy smiles and shakes his head. "Merry Christmas."

Zain shrugs and starts to reply as the song changes.

_Last Christmas_. Things just got worse. Zain releases Smithy's wrist and smiles sort of apologetically.

Smithy hesitates before stepping forward again and slipping the newly spare hand around Zain's waist. He holds the hand he's holding out as he leads with his hip against Zain's.

"Oh c'mon Zain." He mutters into the closest ear, daring him the same way he was dared. "You don't dance?"

Zain takes the challenge and rests his hand on Smithy's lower back. "I didn't say I don't dance. I don't _follow_."

With that, Zain turns his footwork to a more dominant step forward and Smithy finds himself stepping backwards to save his toes. Fact number 4563 he seems not to have known about his friend: he can somehow dance. Quite well.

Fact number 4564: he knows the words to _Last Christmas_. And he's half-singing along.

Smithy can't remember when he had quite so much fun. He and Zain up-beat-close-dance around the dance floor, much to the disappointment of Will and Dan's Macarena.

He's singing and talking loudly.

With someone he doesn't spend a lot of time with.

But above all, he's _dancing_.


	5. PHASE FIVE – transportation

"Can I give you a lift home?" "Can I walk you to your car?" "Can I call you a taxi?" – ordinary, polite inquiries become a lot less innocent. Double meanings, taxis and car keys are offered, confiscated and misinterpreted.

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't. Rejecting advances hurt feelings and damage relationships; capitalizing on the same advances can do even more harm. Feelings and egos are crushed and bolstered in minutes.

Smithy doesn't want to go home anymore.

The girls toilets have become a safe-haven but Smithy isn't sure why. He's not really sure if he cares anymore. He has a vague idea that someone's crying and that someone else is angry on their behalf. He knows that the lads' high spirits have dwindled back to the bar where they stand, watching.

Smithy's still dancing with Zain. Slade are adding their legacy to yet another Christmas party and Zain knows _these_ words, too. He's beaming as they join into another drunken chorus:

_So here it is, Merry Christmas_

_Everybody's havin' fun_

_Look to the future now, it's only just begu-uu-un._

He dissolves laughing again as Zain ducks his six-foot-something frame under his arm. Zain catches him and they both laugh harder, "Plonker," Zain swears he mutters through gasps.

Smithy can't find his jacket.

Come to think of it, he can't quite remember if his jacket made it as far as the party.

He heads to the locker-rooms. It's December, surely he _had_ a coat. If only he could think back a bit more; just a bit?

He raises a hand to his forehead to steady the slight sickening spin the room suddenly seemed to be having fun with. No good. He leans forward and presses his brow to the cold lockers.

Outside he hears hushed voices – giggling and whispering, over the music in the canteen. He half-wonders whose voices they are.

Jacket. Coat. Jumper. Gloves. Scarf.

The door squeaks.

He's wearing jeans and a jumper, so logically it's a jacket he's looking for.

"Can I call you a cab, Sarge?"

"Now, shZain." He turns his head to look across at the door. "That's a bit personal."

"A cab?"

"I'm not even…It's not." He turns his whole body and sinks onto the bench. "You're 'bit forward."

Zain sighs and crosses the room to sit next to Smithy. "You sound like I feel."

Smithy shakes his head defiantly. "'m fine. Just, don't ask me to dance. I'll fall down."

He's leaning against a brick wall, the fingertips of one hand buried in the grooves of the mortar, steadying himself. His other hand rests unsteadily on a shoulder.

Zain's nose touches his own and he feels his light breath over his bottom lip. Lips that feel different from anything he's used to gently touch his own and he's never felt so warm in his life.

The lips are gone and their noses touch again. He shivers, even though he can't remember being cold. He can't seem to form a rational or coherent thought that doesn't involve the word "Christmas".

Zain inhales, and kissing him again. This time, a hand creeps up and touches Smithy's cheek. His fingertips dig deeper into the mortar and a little sigh makes its way out.

A sharp blast from a nearby cab shatters the blissful warm confusion. Zain's face and hand are gone, and he takes a step back from the wall and from Smithy. In reply, he groans like a school-kid on Monday morning.

Zain carefully stands Smithy up, then smoothes his own jacket before straightening his tie and nodding his head. "Cab's here."

Smithy now hates Taxis and taxi drivers as a whole.


	6. PHASE SEVEN – missing phase sixthe walk

**PHASE SEVEN – missing phase six/the walk of shame.**

The reality of what happened after leaving the party is artfully hidden by the brain and discretion.

Yeah. In an ideal world.

But nobody can be quite sure who saw what. Not only is it bad enough that something may have happened at the party with a friend, a boss, an enemy, even one of their spouses is bad enough – but the chances are, someone saw it.

The morning of Boxing Day, Smithy ties his tie in the Sunhill bathroom mirror.

Despite the hangover, he feels he got away with the Christmas Party. He wasn't the only one dancing, even with a slightly strange choice of partner. He didn't drink _that_ much. Everything else can be dealt with.

He straightens his collar and turns his head to the left, then the right. Horrified, he pulls down the edge of his collar. The large, reddish mark on his neck is just as visible and angry-looking as it was the morning before.

He shrugs his shirt up and tries to pull the collar up, but the curve of the top sits over the crisp line, completely blowing its own cover.

There's no way he's going to get away with this.

Only three hundred and sixty-one days to live this down.


End file.
